


Equilibrium

by thisworldisawhore



Series: Teratoma [6]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Dubious Consent, M/M, Not just sexually, Oral Sex, Prostate Stimulation, Protective and/or jealous Zoe, Sibling Incest, The Long Awaited Ending, a fair bit of it, but there is porn, is this romance?, they kiss, vampire!Alan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18614527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisworldisawhore/pseuds/thisworldisawhore
Summary: He was snared in a trap laid the day he was born—entangled in a web woven eons ago.He’s been in this business long enough to know the lore—the old lore, the lore no one talks about. They come back for the family, just about always if it gets that far, and any hunter worth their salt knows that you protect the family before the hunt.From whatis where it gets dicey. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they turn.  And sometimes, well... Edgar knew just how this would end the day that Alan turned.—The Ending!





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> My sweet, weirdly-formatted child...finally completed after nearly a decade and released into the wild. :')
> 
> This is the ending. It's completed.
> 
> The porn in this is incomplete, lol, and there's not enough of it, so I'm probably going to write more porn at some point as a bonus material thing. (Also I have a sort of spin-off thing started, but I can't imagine actually finishing it ever, so I just threw a little teaser in here for it--HEY MICHAEL.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope someone out there enjoys it.
> 
> Also, confession: I didn't read the comic referenced.

He was snared in a trap laid the day he was born—entangled in a web woven eons ago.

He’s been in this business long enough to know the lore—the old lore, the lore no one talks about. They come back for the family, just about always if it gets that far, and any hunter worth their salt knows that you protect the family before the hunt.

 _From what_ is where it gets dicey. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they turn. And sometimes, well... Edgar knew just how this would end the day that Alan turned.

-

-

-

The words tumble out of her just barely quicker than the regret fills up the space they left behind. She shouldn't even start this, but goddamnit... "You're gonna get yourself killed, Edgar."

The truth? It hurts. And they say some things are better left unsaid, and there's no use stating the obvious, but sometimes some men can be so fucking boneheaded that it's all you can do.

"He wouldn't—"

Edgar cuts himself off, nips that right in the bud, and Zoe thinks it's one thing in this that she can respect him for. (Then in the back of her mind, she thinks, _He?_ )

"I don't know what world you're living in right now, but that's what vampires do," She tries to stay calm, calm, calm, and her voice hasn't given it away yet that she _isn't_ calm, isn't the least bit impressed with this, but it will because the words keep coming. "They kill," she says, in case he's forgotten the point already.

"It's not like that," and he's so _fucking naïve._

"Is it not? What's it like, then?" So much for calm because here it goes, she's about to steamroll him. "You're someone's _blood bank?_ Isn't that what you called it? Shane and his crew—all those stupid, yuppie girls that lined up for it?"

He's _so fucking uncomfortable,_ like the fucking bites on his neck are a secret and aren't fucking obvious to anyone with eyes.

"You think they didn't say the same thing? 'It's not like that,' and then where did they end up, Edgar? What happened to them?" It's like it's a hard fucking concept, like it's ever ended differently.

"This is different," he says, still dismissive, _the dismissive hunter,_ and she's rolling her eyes.

"Oh, yeah? How?" Let him explain. Let him hear how stupid he sounds. "How is it different?"

"It just _is_ ," Edgar says and this time, this time, she hears the hurt in his voice. She's hit something, and oh, she's the asshole. Usually she is. Then, lower, he says: "It's not like I have a choice."

And oh, she's messed this up. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and she knows that she deserves the way her heart is breaking. "Edgar," she says. " _Everyone_ has a choice."

She finds that the back of her throat tastes suddenly and inexplicably like tears.

And later it makes a certain kind of sense. His sudden disappearance, the strict daylight hours. Always somewhere to be, something to do, some lead to chase, and now she knows none of that's even true.

Always somewhere to fucking be, and she's so frustrated she could rip the entire store apart with her bare hands. It's not even jealousy, it's—it's the futility of it, of being unable to save him. It's the thought that he doesn't want to be saved. That redemption, for him, lies somewhere else and means something wholly different.

How did she not see this coming? She thinks of the phone calls at the shop and suddenly it makes sense why she couldn't save him. She wonders if it was the boy on the phone, so desparate to find him that Edgar pretended he didn't hear time and time again, but no. Those calls were a warning that now, looking back, makes her skin crawl.

Edgar didn't listen.

-

-

-

The last issue of Batman: The Cult had came in.

Sam couldn't stop chattering on about it, as if getting a copy before they stocked it on the shelves meant the Frogs hadn't read it yet and Sam was the only person on the entire planet that knew the plot of it.

They were the ones that gave it to him.

Edgar is slowly pulling the incoming comic books from their boxes, shuffling and sorting them, drawing out time to give Sam a chance to finish whatever he's going on about before walking off to stock them.

Alan is pretending not to listen, pushing a broom around near the counter and making the floor a bigger mess than it was to start with. It's not so much that he hates Sam, but he has this pathological fear that if he steps away for one second, Edgar will realize Alan isn't necessary and will go form a life somewhere without him. They might have been friends in a different world, and Alan assumes Sam thinks they are even in this one, but he doesn't delude himself into thinking that Sam would be here if Edgar wasn't. (And later on, the irony of that's almost funny, since Edgar _isn't_ there and that's precisely the point.)

It's still early in the day and they haven't officially opened yet. Some of the rides are going, small bells and chimes in the background, but there won't be any crowds or music for several more hours. It's nearly an hour left until they really open, and probably longer until they see their first customer.

"...And, oh man, the part where he thinks he's gunning down Two-Face?"

As if they hadn't read it the night before, the same as Sam except crammed over the same comic because Alan only brought one upstairs.

 _Can you breathe on me a little less?_ Edgar had grumbled.

 _No,_ was Alan's deadpan response.

Edgar had shoved him.

Alan pounced and took him to the ground, roughhousing and wallowing until Edgar was sputtering and struggling and finally yelled "Get off me!"

His headband was on the other side of the room.

Alan was already back at the desk, laughing.

When he turned back to the comic, Edgar joined him.

That time Edgar breathed on Alan's shoulder.

Meanwhile, Sam keeps going. "And the _bodies_ when Robin found him, the things he did under Blackfire's brainwashing..."

Edgar speaks up, "We've read it, Sam."

Sam barely slows down for a second, but then again he rarely listens to Edgar anyway. He sighs like they've missed something.

"Look, all I'm saying is, brainwashing? That's the exact kind of thing we need to be on the lookout for."

Alan rolls his eyes at the exact second Sam looks over at him. It may or may not have been planned. He looks up for half a second, unimpressed as ever, and goes back to his floor. "How? If you're brainwashed, you don't know."

"He's right," Edgar says looking between them.

"Oh my god, guys. I didn't mean... I meant look out for _each other_."

"Oh," Edgar says.

"Look at Mike. He was brainwashed," Alan says, never one to leave a good conversation unruined. Edgar glares at him.

"Yeah, exactly, and we killed the head vampire and it broke the spell," Sam says so earnestly that it's obvious that he didn't see where it was headed. "As long as you catch it early, you can break it. That's why we gotta look out for it."

Alan shrugs, pinned under the weight of Edgar's hard stare. "Yeah," he says. Edgar grunts an affirmation and the danger passed.

They'd had this conversation already, in private, just the night before. First about how eerily similar Blackfire's cult had been to the vampire problem in Santa Carla, and then a while later about Michael.

 _Mike isn't right_ , Alan had said, staring at the ceiling long after he should have been asleep. And yeah, that part was obvious, Edgar had said, but those bloodsuckers were gone, they had killed the head vampire, and Mike obviously _wasn't_ one anymore.

 _Do you think that isn't enough?_ Alan had asked. _Do you think it's always like that? That it doesn't ever go away even when they're dead?_ He asked, turning to look at his brother even though he could only make out his outline in the dark room. Like the sight of him might be enough to quell that worry. To quiet the part of him that wondered if that was really truth, justice, and the American way.

Edgar wished he could answer, but he didn't know. Edgar didn't know how much of what was wrong with Michael was just _Michael_ and not some residue of what had happened to him. Didn't know much of how people worked at all besides Alan and Sam.

Truth be told, _Just don't mention it to Sam_ , was really all that he did know, because what they did, what they still would do, wasn't pointless and he had to believe that nothing was inevitable.

He was so fucking naïve.

When Edgar looks back on it later, he thinks it's the first wedge that came between them, that this sudden secret with his brother was the earliest part of the foundation of the wall that became so insurmountable between him and Sam. He thinks maybe it could have ended differently for all of them.

He thinks of how he tried to tell Sam that something was wrong with Alan all those years before, but just couldn't get the words out. He thinks of how quick Sam ducked out of there that night anyway like he wasn't the one that talked about looking out for each other. He thinks of how _jealous_ he was on the ride to Widow Johnson's, like Sam and Alan had some stupid secret he wasn't a part of, and how mad he still is about it.

Whatever the problem was, it ran deeper than Alan speaking some truth about Michael. Maybe the three of them were doomed from the start.

Here and now, Sam peers into a box and asks, "What else came in this week?"

And outside the world marched forward toward some bright and dazzling future, spinning at such a fast pace that it’s a wonder it didn’t shoot off into another dimension.

Alan had grit his teeth, pushed his broom, and knew that for him that ship sailed long ago.

Being as it was, Alan didn't ever mention to Sam then that part of Michael never really came back. The way he got lost inside his head sometimes, dazed when he came back to the present with that uneasy smile. All the hollow places still obviously inside of him.

In the long run, it wouldn't have mattered. The joke was on them because David was still out there, he just didn't want to be found. They couldn't have known.

Alan was the one that worried about those hollow places and look where it got him.

And Sam? Sam was gone.

Edgar thought he was gone in a different sense, told by some other hunter about the disarray, the scorched floors and the black blood on the walls left at the Emerson's.

 _I hate to tell ya, but it looks like one of those suckers burnt up down there,_ he had said. _I just went to check, I swear to it, you know, keep an eye on him,_ he had backpedaled, _but someone else had done got him._ He paused a beat before he added, with sincerity, _I'm sorry for that._

Edgar had slammed the phone down so hard the receiver cracked. His world ended for a second time.

Alan let Edgar believe it because sometimes it's easier that way, but Alan saw that scene, too. He also saw through it because it was just glimmer. Alan didn't know where Sam was, either, not really, but he had suspicions.

Michael, though? The scene he walks into isn't the same as Alan or the hunter before him. He knows exactly where Sam is. It's gift wrapped for him.

There's an ornate bottle of wine on the dresser.

-

-

-

He tried to think of girls. Of the soft skin of Zoe’s hands, her curves and slender legs. The sweet smell of Star’s hair, how well it stood out that night at the Emerson’s even among the smell of death.

Of the few girls that hung around the shop from time to time all those years ago. His first kiss in the low light of one of the back sections, a girl named Lacy with lips sticky sweet with gloss; Edgar’s fumbled against them, nervous and unsure. Surprised that he didn’t feel like any kind of elation, just a pounding heart and shaky nerves. When she pulled back, Edgar thought the feeling might be replaced by warmth. Then she opened her mouth and asked the question he was least prepared for: “Where’s Alan?”

His stomach sank, but at the same time it came as no surprise. He could see the way girls looked at him, the few that were ever there. Alan would reach for a bag for whatever they ordered and the corded muscle in his arms and shoulders would ripple, clearly visible under the cut off tanks he tended to wear. Alan would come back up with a slow, easy smile, and the girls never stood a chance.

Edgar tried not to watch, his handsome brother getting the attention Edgar couldn’t seem to get even when besides these moments Alan had no interest in people and as far as Edgar knew, he never pursued them. But the thing about trying not to watch is his attention was there anyway no matter where he looked, and Edgar always fell prey to the weight of his brother’s stare. Alan would lean onto the counter, knowing good and well how his arms flexed holding his weight like that, not even done with the transaction before he would turn his head to Edgar, who was at the other end of the counter trying to pretend he was absorbed in a comic, still closed and inside the plastic wrap.

Edgar, already starting to blush, would look up as if to snap _What?_ , but Alan had a way of locking eyes even then that was immobilizing. Edgar invariably lost any fire he had managed to it. Alan was never a man of many words, and Edgar was used to reading his eyes, his face, his stance, his touch (because, oh, could Alan be touchy)... and the weight of his stare meant something, Edgar knew, and perhaps that’s what frustrated him the most was the knowledge that it _did_ mean something, there was purpose in it, but Edgar just couldn’t _process_ what it was. Alan would smirk, nearly a leer, eyes softened and dancing with warmth (heat?), then turn back to his babbling customer with that same fucking _look_ on his face, and it always left Edgar flushed and flustered, though he could never pinpoint why, and he would slam down his (unopened) comic book and walk away.

He wonders, years later, if the sinking, shameful feeling he felt when Lacy asked about his brother wasn’t because she was interested in Alan and Edgar was just a consolation prize, but because she sensed something off about them (wrongly) that Edgar just didn’t want to see.

Alan coincidentally _was_ there, having appeared back behind the counter even if he couldn’t see, but Alan didn’t miss the way the girl made a beeline for him and his brother reluctantly followed, obviously cross and mouth red where he had scrubbed it maybe a little too aggressively. Alan raised his eyebrows at his little brother, Edgar grumbled something unintelligible, and Alan offered him an uncharacteristically soft smile. Edgar pushed past him, Alan’s fingertips spreading to trail his arm as Edgar went by. (Alan wondered _if the taste of her lip gloss was still on his brother’s mouth._ That thought cropped again later, worryingly, in the middle of the night when he could feel Edgar’s heat even from across the bed, and Alan was trying not to wake him as he desperately fisted his cock, biting his own hand to keep quiet, but even the thought of consequence couldn’t quell the fire in his blood that night. Alan wonders if that was the first time he thought of his brother in that way.)

About Lacy, Edgar wonders, too, if the shame he felt for that kiss was because—even in that moment that should have just been the two of them, something at least _special_ even if not _meaningful_ —his brother was there in his head like some looming specter and Edgar, too, wondered where Alan was.

He tries to think of girls, nearly a decade later, the daysweeks _months_ that he’s in limbo and Alan isn’t so much a looming specter in his head anymore as a looming specter in the physical sense. When he’s too keyed up on the uncertainty of it, too drowned under the weight of it, _too enamored with the bittersweetness of it..._

He wonders, in the humid, claustrophobic press of the trailer, when did it become like this? Uncaught breath like something constricting his diaphragm? Something far too dirty and far too close? When did the smoky, cloying heat morph into needle-sharp stubble against his skin? Sweat clotting like blood, turning into a metallic, rancid odor, and all he can ever think of is Alan, but that slithering warmth keeps his mind lax. Never mind that when it leaves, it's just something else to remind him of a dreamed warning, a doomed prophecy. A promise of something similar to eternity.

And that infernal heat comes through in the middle of the night, like it invariably does, when his conscious (conscience?) is foggy and he’s wrapped in dreams he can’t always differentiate from here and now. But, oh, it wraps around him like hands and limbs, cards through him like sand, and in these moments he feels safe for the first time in years.

-

-

-

Alan wishes he could take his time, _more_ time because it's never quite _enough_ , but lays him out anyway and wrings the pleasure from him until he has nothing left to give.

Alan rolls small, dusty nipples between his fingers, worries his stomach and hips with his teeth, leaves tin surface level scratches when they sharpen, and sucks bruises into the skin. Gouges in with his thumbs, pulls that thin skin tight over the bone and listens to his brother whine, then rolls and tugs at his balls.

Some part of him knows he's being too rough, too abrasive in the same ways he's always been, but the arch of his body is so gorgeous, this open channel between them so flooded with longing and memory, that this headspace, this need for something substantial and tangible, feels unavoidable.

He spreads Edgar’s legs, slips a hand back to thumb at his perineum, milks his prostate that way until he’s bucking and screaming—and god, he knew he would, Alan sends him this kind of pleasure in dreams and he _always_ cracks—and bites into the inside of his thigh just to feel the muscle jump when he comes, cock flat against him, spurting in thick ropes on his hip and stomach.

Alan’s own cock is dribbling between his legs. His hand barely reaches it, licking the smears of blood off of his lips, before he feels his release tear out of him. He clamps his hand down and harshly strokes himself through it, positive for a few seconds that he’ll pass out. When he looks back up, Edgar is flushed, skin slick with sweat. There’s blood slowly oozing from his leg. Come, blood, and bruises on his hips, his stomach; it's resting on the trail of hair from his navel.

He cleans the blood from the wound on his thigh. Edgar’s cock lays against his stomach, softening but still so deliciously thick. Alan licks a stripe from root to tip, sucks the head into his mouth and dips his tongue in the slit.

The sharp edges of Edgar’s hip bones sting against Alan’s palms, a tragic reminder of how unkind the years have been on his brother. But, oh, they make him want, too.

Edgar’s hips jerk, he curses, over sensitive, but his cock gives one final, pathetic spurt that his brother swipes away and swallows. Alan laps at the come on his stomach, the sweat mixed with it. Gives one gentle human bite to Edgar’s other nipple, soothes it over with his tongue.

He winds a hand, his clean hand, in Edgar’s hair and nuzzles at his jaw, gives little, playful nips that don’t break the skin.

Alan is still half-hard; blood will do that to him. His voice against Edgar’s ear is all low husk when he says, “Do you think you can come again?”

“ _Jesus,_ Alan,” Edgar’s voice is strangled, garbled. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, but there’s a thread of arousal in his voice still.

“If I suck you off?” Alan asks against his ear and tugs. Edgar curses again. Alan mouths at his neck then his jaw, where the stubble cuts into his lips, leaves them raw.

And this is the part where he acheache _aches_ : his teeth, the air that catches in his chest, the burning behind his eyes. Alan wants to devour him. Wants to chase the water from his skin, bend him over the counter and lick him open, crowd him into that too small shower and fuck him against the wall. Wants those wasted years back so badly that he worries it might break him.

His beautiful fucking brother. Will he still feel this hunger if Edgar is no longer human? Oh, god, he can't envision a world where he doesn't.

He feels out Edgar’s cock, not fully hard but starting to chub, and strokes.

-

-

-

Edgar knows that something is about to shift, that Alan is about to turn this tenuous equilibrium on its head because that’s how Alan _is_. He thinks, dimly, that he should have felt this way before now, maybe when Alan slowly faded back into his life, into his bed.

But it’s now that he does, with a lap full of his brother, Alan’s breath against his face a mimicry of life that he can’t recall whose benefit it’s for anymore. He just knows that it’s achingly sweet on his skin and tingles against his lips. Alan’s hand is calloused but gentle against his cheek, forehead pressed to his, and, oh, this simple contact makes his head spin.

Alan’s eyes bore into him for no more than a moment but long enough that it feels like hypnotism. His own eyes grow heavy and he feels his lips part of their own volition. Edgar moves with this slow nuzzling, this unfair paralyzation of his higher brain, and he’s startled to realize his hands are on Alan’s hips—when they shift against him, nearly imperceptibly, he’s even more startled to realize he’s half hard.

They've never been here, not like this. There's no mental transference between them, no dizzying mind link open, just this simple give and take. Alan moves, nuzzling in against his cheek, his hair, Alan's hand cradling the jaw opposite, and the slowness, the tenderness of it is heady. Edgar has to scoot back, let his thighs fall open just a bit.

His hands skim his brother's thighs on the way up, unconsciously skim under the hem of his shirt, and the unintended brush of his fingertips against the smooth skin of Alan's back is electrifying. Alan arches catlike at the touch, and oh, Edgar didn't know it could be like this, doesn't realize he's slid his entire hand up against Alan's spine until he squirms and Edgar's dick twitches but he wants to beg forgiveness because oh lord, he didn't know, didn't know how touch-starved his brother was, didn't know how starved to touch _he_ was.

Alan's lips move in front of his ear, not quite kisses but so startlingly human, a silent prayer against his skin. Edgar moves, angles for him, and Alan's lips press soft against his jawline, slow and sweet as they follow it. Alan's fingertips touch his hair and his face. He can feel his own pulse beat against the heel of Alan's hand.

When Alan pulls back, his eyes are dazed. Edgar breath starts to feel labored, a burning in his chest. His fingers twitch against the fabric of Alan's jeans. It's all too heavy, it's weighing down on him, and Alan swoops back in with another caste kiss to the side of his chin, further up until his lips press just under the corner of his mouth and linger dizzyling until Edgar thinks _he won't, he won't, he won't_... Until he's trembling, ready to beg, heart pounding and _so fucking drunk on it_ that he'll give anything, anything at all, just _please_...

And Alan does. He slides up and presses gentle at the corner of Edgar's mouth and Edgar's so fucking stunned by it that he can't do anything at all but marvel at how alien the feeling is. Alan's fingers thread through his hair, his hand cradles the back of Edgar's skull. Edgar lets out the breath he was holding. Alan shifts in his lap, slides his open mouth against Edgar's in a feather-light whisper of mingled breath and barely there sensation until the ache between them in palpable.

Edgar's hands slip back up to find skin, any sort of contact to balance out the tease of it, then Alan presses a solid, real kiss to Edgar's mouth, and another, and another, with increasing quickness and pressure until Edgar's no longer worried about being fumbling and awkward and his mouth moves surely against Alan's. Until the kisses become more open mouthed, more desparate, and Alan's hands cradle his face, his lips tingle, numb from the pressure, a swipe of just the tip of Alan's tongue, his mouth slick with saliva, then there's the smell of copper, the stinging taste of it on his tongue, and...

Edgar jerks backwards. Anger bubbles up within him and burns like a beacon in his chest.

His stupid, gorgeous brother, and this is the end, isn’t it? This is where Alan takes what Edgar isn’t ready to give. This stupid, human life (is it really a life, some part of him thinks, or is it just existence?) in this tiny cage he’s made for himself, where the only thing he cares about, the only thing he craves, is on the other side.

The blood in Alan’s mouth spills between his lips, over his chin, and down between them. Alan hasn’t moved, but he’s watching Edgar, burning through him.

Edgar thinks of the line in the sand that divides them. He thinks of the hunt, the victory he no longer feels. The heaviness he feels at the end of every job, like bricks and mortar stacked upon his shoulders. He thinks of how he no longer sees the lives he’s saved, only the lives ruined one way or another, and how that darkness, that weight, became something that he took home with him.

Edgar thinks of how this world doesn’t seem to have a place for him anymore. But his brother’s does.

Alan senses the shift in him, maybe sees the frustration welled in his eyes, because his hands are stroking Edgar’s hair and he leans against him. Edgar’s gaze falls to the blood on his mouth (and it seems like there’s always blood on his mouth). Finds himself intoxicated by the siren call of it.

This time, Edgar kisses him.

Alan’s blood is tacky against his lips, his face. Alan kisses with the pent-up desperation of long years without an anchor. With teeth and tongue, wet suction against his lips, and small, low groans that go south a little too quickly. Edgar matches him with all of the heat of the monster that’s plagued his dreams this entire time.

Edgar licks into his brother’s mouth, licks the blood from his teeth, and thinks for a sinking moment that Alan has taken it back, rescinded his offer, but then Alan shifts on his lap. One of Edgar’s hands fumbles backwards to keep from falling, his head tips back and there’s blood, syrup-thick sliding past his lips.

Alan’s bleeding tongue swipes against his teeth, delves in to tangle with Edgar’s, and Edgar is surprised to find that the taste of copper is far removed. It’s almost sweet against his tongue. Edgar _sucks_ , and this time, Alan does push him down flat against the mattress.

Edgar’s hands flutter hesitantly before they wind into Alan’s hair, and Alan moves them back with such a fluid motion that Edgar barely realizes they’ve moved at all.

His brother surrounds him, honey-sweet on his tongue and warm in a way he shouldn’t be, and he wonders in some deep recess of his mind if he _hasn’t_ been here before. It’s hard to imagine a world where this hasn’t happened, where this wasn’t inevitable. It's hard to imagine a world where Edgar made his choice and it was anything other than Alan.

Outside, the waves crash against the cliff in a deafening roar and the moon hangs full and ripe above it. Its thin, pale light turns the water to blood.

-

-

-

Months later he brings Alan's hand up and brushes his mouth against his wrist, the heel of his hand. The blood under the thin skin against his lips, the fleshy pad of his palm split wide—he wants to bite, just for a taste, then move down and feed from his wrist. The skin parting under his teeth, soft and delicate, not unlike the pale, soft skin between his thighs...

But in this moment, his brother is made of porcelain, and as much as his viscera trembles at the thought of lifeblood spilled, Alan is half asleep against him, whatever demons inhabit his mind lulled by their proximity and peaceful in a way his waking self has never been, even before. Alan's breath comes in short puffs on his neck and shoulder, and when he lowers Alan's hand back down, his fingertips twitch over his ribs, and Edgar feels hollow as a gourd at the thought of losing him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, but no really, where's the rest of the porn?
> 
> Find me on tumblr if u want 2 chatttt


End file.
